


In The Bleak Midwinter

by CosmicZombie



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Happy Christmassy endings!, M/M, Warm Fuzzies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy knew Thomas better than anyone, and knew him too well not to notice when something was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little Christmas oneshot I came up with today... I Hope you all enjoy, and as always, feedback is lovely! Merry Christmas! <3

Downton was beautiful in December. The frost glittered on the lawns and driveway, and the sun sunk low in the wintry sky, an amber hue that illuminated the frozen branches of the trees. Inside, the ornate Christmas tree glowed with lights and decorations, and the whole house was filled with the scent of cinnamon and baking. Downstairs was always a bustle of activity in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and despite the extra workload, everyone was in good spirits. Last year, Thomas had joined in with the festivities and the carols everyone sung accompanied by Jimmy on the piano, but this year was different.

 

Although last Christmas he had only just formed the tentative friendship with Jimmy, they had spent the festive period staying up late into the night, laughing and playing cards. Over the last twelve months, their friendship had strengthened; Thomas had never expected to have become such good friends with Jimmy, and was eternally grateful for his friendship with the other man. It wasn’t enough to stop him from being just as painfully in love with Jimmy as he had been since the day they’d met, but it almost enough to help bear it.

 

Only in the past few weeks, Thomas had barely spoken to Jimmy at all. In fact, Thomas had barely spoken to anyone at all. Ever since the days had become small pauses of daylight between increasing darkness and the coldness from outside had seeped into the house, it had started to happen; Thomas’ old injury had begun to flare up. His fingers constantly felt numb and uncomfortable under the cold leather of his glove, and Thomas was secretly terrified that he was beginning to lose the feeling in his fingers. If he did, he knew that this would mean the end of his career in service, and consequently, the end of his friendship with Jimmy.

 

Consequently, he’d been tense and worried for weeks, and in the last few days which had brought particularly bitter snowstorms, his mood had worsened along with the pain in his hand. At breakfast that morning, Thomas had dropped the marmalade when Daisy had passed it to him, and he’d knocked over Lady Grantham’s glass at Luncheon. It simply wasn’t in his nature to be clumsy, and worst of all, Thomas knew that Jimmy could tell something was wrong. The footman had been watching him closely with a worried expression whenever Thomas snapped a little too sharply at someone or dropped something at the table; he knew Thomas better than anyone, and knew him too well not to notice when something was wrong.

 

But Thomas couldn’t bring himself to tell Jimmy. Normally if he was feeling gloomy about something, talking to Jimmy would help— but not in this case. He was afraid that voicing his fears out loud would make them more real, and he knew that if he spent time with Jimmy as he normally did, he would not be able to conceal it— Jimmy had a knack for getting him to bear his soul, whether he wanted to or not. Lying to Jimmy left Thomas with a sour taste in his mouth.

 

So ever since the start of December, he had diligently avoided the other man, even though it pained him to do so. Whenever Jimmy asked if he wanted to go for a smoke, Thomas would pretend that he had an errand to run for Mr. Carson; when Jimmy sat down at the table in the servants’ hall at the end of the day, Thomas would stub out his cigarette and say he needed an early night; when Jimmy tried to catch his eye across the table at breakfast, Thomas would stare determinedly at his porridge.

 

It pained him more than words could express to see the hurt confusion in Jimmy’s expression whenever Thomas made his feeble excuses to go and sit by himself, and not having Jimmy at his side, laughing at everyone and sharing cigarettes with him felt completely wrong. It felt as though Thomas only half a person, and it reminded him horribly of the period Jimmy had hated him. But it was better than telling him the truth and having to come to terms with it. While it was unvoiced, Thomas could almost pretend that it wasn’t true.

 

At least by Christmas Eve, Thomas no longer had to make up frail excuses not to spend time with Jimmy that sounded weak even to his own ears; Mr. Carson’s sister had been taken ill, and he’d travelled up to London to see her, leaving Thomas in charge as under-butler. This meant that Thomas was conveniently very busy, and genuinely didn’t have time to go outside and smoke in the freshly falling snow or play cards with Jimmy at the table in the servants’ hall. He spent all of the morning of Christmas eve hurrying around so that he wouldn’t have to think about how the fingers in his left hand felt stiffer and more numb than ever.

 

Everyone else was in festive spirits; the hallboys had dripped snow into the hallways after shovelling it from the driveway, the servants’ hall and the kitchen smelt of mince pies and spices, and everyone was laughing or joking and humming Christmas carols as they went about their business.

 

However, Thomas couldn’t help noticing that Jimmy was almost as silent as he had been the past few weeks; he barely spoke to anyone at Luncheon, and picked at the food on his plate, even though Mrs. Patmore had made his favourite potato pie. Thomas had thought he’d looked out of sorts the past few weeks whenever he caught a glance of Jimmy, but he tried his very best not to let his gaze linger long enough to notice, because it only made him want to talk to Jimmy more, to the point where it almost physically hurt not to.

 

“Can you pass the gravy please, Mr. Barrow?” Anna asked from across the table, pulling Thomas from his thoughts.

 

Without thinking, Thomas reached for the jug with his left hand to pass it to her— only his fingers didn’t quite grasp the handle properly, and the jug fell down to the table with a loud _clunk_ , spilling gravy everywhere.

 

“Oh, mind the table cloth!” Mrs. Hughes cried, jumping up to try and mop up the worst of the gravy. “If you can’t even pass a jug across the table, I have no idea what Mr. Carson was thinking leaving you in charge, Mr. Barrow,” she exclaimed, shaking her head as she dabbed at the table cloth.

 

Thomas’ cheeks were burning and his heart was thumping uncomfortably in his chest. His fingers throbbed painfully, and to his horror, he felt a lump rising in his throat. Without another word, he threw down his napkin and left the room. He tried furiously to move his fingers, but he still wasn’t sure he could feel them properly.

 

“Mr. Barrow!” Jimmy’s voice brought Thomas to a halt halfway down the hall. “Wait!”

 

He turned around to see Jimmy hurrying after him down the hallway, eyes full of a concern that made Thomas feel ashamed and angry with himself.

 

“What is it?” Thomas asked curtly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“I— I just— are you— are you quite alright, Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy asked uncertainly. Thomas suddenly noticed that his face was paler than usual, and there were dark circles shadowing his blue eyes, as though he hadn’t been sleeping properly. The thought pained him; to think that something was bothering Jimmy, and he couldn’t ask him about it, because if he did, his own fears would come spilling out. 

 

“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” Thomas replied evenly, hating himself for lying to Jimmy. The words felt sour in his mouth, and something in Jimmy’s intent blue gaze flickered. “I have plenty to attend to what with Mr. Carson being away, however, so if you’ll excuse me—” he carefully stepped past Jimmy and shakily made his way towards Mr. Carson’s office, leaving Jimmy standing in the middle of the hallway looking as lost as Thomas suddenly felt.

 

 

~

 

 

Thomas managed to spend the rest of Christmas Eve on his own in Mr. Carson’s office, organising the wine and silverware. He didn’t even leave the safety of the office for dinner, but instead instructed Mrs. Patmore to bring him some bread and cheese. He could hear laughter and music emanating from the servants’ hall; Jimmy must be playing the piano. The thought made his heart ache almost unbearably in his chest, and he set down his half-eaten slice of bread to listen. He could picture Jimmy sitting at the piano, playing exuberantly so that his blonde hair tumbled into his eyes and his grin was no longer the flirtatious one he manufactured, but the genuine smile that made Thomas’ heart flutter.

 

Thomas had forgotten how awful it was not to be able to speak to the other man properly; to hear Jimmy’s witty comments about the other staff or the family, or even just to stand in companionable silence as they smoked. It had been terrible enough when Jimmy had been trying to get him sacked, but now Thomas knew that it was all his own doing, and that somehow made it even worse to bear. He kept picturing Jimmy’s anxious expression and tired eyes in the hallway earlier that day, and wondered if Jimmy missed his company too— although Thomas knew that was only wishful thinking. Jimmy talked to him and laughed with him, but he did the same with everyone else too. It was Thomas who was dependent on the friendship, not him.

 

Fleetingly, Thomas wondered about just telling Jimmy what was bothering him— but the thought made panic close around his throat and his hand ache where it rested on the table. If he really was losing the feeling in it, he knew he would no longer be able to work in service, and therefore would no longer be able to see Jimmy every day. The thought was almost unbearable. Thomas wanted to postpone its possibility for as long as possible. As Jimmy began to play ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, Thomas gingerly unbuttoned the leather glove, examining the puckered, ugly scaring that spread from his palm to his fingertips and tentatively moving his fingers. He still wasn’t certain he could feel the movement properly. Frustration clawed at his chest, and he moved them more angrily, trying to evict a response. The carol carried on, lilting and lonely. Thomas had never liked it before he'd heard Jimmy playing it last year, and then he'd decided that it was the most beautiful one he'd heard. 

 

Eventually, he gave up and put his head in his hands, blocking out the dimly lit room and the wine bottles and the discarded leather glove on the table in front of him, and just listened to the laughter and chatter ebbing down the hall from where the piano was still playing. He listened until the laughter gradually faded away, and for a long time, it was just the piano playing sad, lonely carols until it stopped too, and the house suddenly seemed horribly, unbearably silent.

 

It was so silent that the soft knock on the office door made Thomas jump, taking his head out of his hands and looking up blearily.

 

“Come in,” he mumbled hoarsely, pushing a hand through his hair where it had flopped out of place. After a moment’s hesitation, the door opened and Jimmy stepped inside, closing it carefully behind him.

 

He was still in his livery, but his blonde hair was tousled and the rings of shadow around his startlingly blue eyes seemed more pronounced than ever.

 

“Jimmy,” Thomas frowned, hastily trying to hide his hand. “What are you still doing awake?”

 

“I need to speak with you, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy said, his voice wavering slightly as he crossed the room to where Thomas was sitting behind Mr. Carson’s desk.

 

“I’m busy just now,” Thomas lied, not meeting Jimmy’s inescapably blue gaze.

 

“No you’re not,” Jimmy said slowly. He took a deep breath. “And I wish you’d stop making up excuses not to talk to me, Mr. Barrow, and just tell me the real reason why you keep avoiding me. Did I do something wrong?”

 

Thomas looked up, appalled. “No, of course you didn’t, Jimmy,” he exclaimed, feeling terrible. Jimmy looked inexorably perfect in the flickering light of the fire that had burnt down to its last embers. The glow of the orange flames highlighted the dark circles shadowing the other man’s eyes, and the flawless shape of his lips and his jaw line. Thomas didn’t think anything could look more beautiful, and he hastily swallowed uncomfortably, looking away. He knew he couldn’t refuse anything Jimmy wanted him to do, and that was why he had tried so desperately to stay away. If he kept looking at Jimmy, he knew he would be broken.

 

“Then please, Mr. Barrow, tell me what’s wrong,” Jimmy whispered, concern filling his blue eyes as they regarded Thomas anxiously in the flickering firelight.

 

Thomas half shook his head, and then stopped, putting his head in his hands again. “I can’t, Jimmy. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

 

“Why ever not?” Jimmy asked quietly. His voice was closer than it had been a moment ago, as if he’d stepped closer to the desk. Thomas didn’t dare to look up; he knew if he kept looking at Jimmy, he couldn’t keep lying. Instead, he just shook his head again, feeling utterly ashamed for appearing so vulnerable and weak.

 

“Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy’s voice was soft, and there was suddenly a gentle pressure on Thomas’ upper arm. “Come and sit in front of the fire with me. Please. Just for a moment.”

 

Thomas found he couldn’t resist the urgency in Jimmy’s voice, and reluctantly got up, crossing the room and sitting down in one of the armchairs by the glowing heat of the fire. Jimmy sat in the one opposite, the firelight seeming to flicker in the icy blue of his eyes, as though it was trying to melt them.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Jimmy said insistently, eyes not leaving Thomas.

 

“It’s… It’s my hand,” Thomas said quietly. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he felt simultaneously lighter and heavier. His heart was thumping in his chest.

 

Jimmy frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“I think—” Thomas broke off, swallowing hard. “I think I’m losing the feeling in it.”

 

Jimmy went quiet, but his gaze lingered on Thomas, piercing yet warm at the same time. Thomas wanted to tell him that his eyes were like fire and ice, but he didn’t, because he never told Jimmy half the things he thought. It was just one of the prices to pay for being friends with him— and Thomas would pay almost anything to be friends with Jimmy. 

 

“Are you certain?” Jimmy asked after several moments of silence, in a tone which made clear he knew exactly what implications such an affliction would have.

 

“Almost,” Thomas replied, looking away because it had become too painful to look at Jimmy. “It— it started when the colder weather begun, and it’s got progressively worse. Whenever I think about it, it just gets worse and worse and now I’m almost certain I can’t feel my fingers properly. I don’t know what to do, Jimmy,” he looked up, heart thudding fearfully in his chest.

 

“I think you’re wrong,” Jimmy said clearly.

 

Thomas blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“I think it’s all in your head, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy said in a tone of voice that could make Thomas believe anything. His blue eyes were glittering captivatingly in the glow of the firelight. “I think your worrying about it has made it seem worse than it actually is.”

 

 Thomas didn’t say anything, merely looked disbelievingly at Jimmy. “I wish that were true.”

 

“It _is_ ,” Jimmy said forcefully, blue eyes blazing more fiercely than the fire beside them. Thomas could see the heat of it colouring Jimmy’s cheeks. “It _is_ true, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy’s voice shook slightly, and he reached out, suddenly clasping Thomas’ hand with his own. Thomas stared at Jimmy in shock and his breath hitched in his throat at the feel of Jimmy’s soft, warm skin against his. He could feel the slight callous between Jimmy’s index finger where he smoked his cigarettes, and the soft scar from where Jimmy had cut his hand last year and Thomas had bandaged it for him.

 

“Can you feel that?” Jimmy whispered, tracing his fingertips along Thomas’ before interlacing them and squeezing gently, as though he didn’t want to let go.

 

Wordlessly, Thomas nodded. His heart was racing in his chest and he felt as though he was in some kind of dream.

 

Tentatively, Jimmy guided Thomas’ hand up to his face, gently directing Thomas’ fingertips up the tender skin of his neck. Thomas’ heart thumped faster still as he felt the impossibly soft, warm skin and the way that Jimmy’s pulse was fluttering wildly under it, as though it was trying to race Thomas’ heart.

 

“Can you feel that?” Jimmy murmured softly, his gaze heavy.

 

Thomas nodded again. Even if he’d wanted to say something, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to. It intoxicating; he could almost taste the cinnamon and spices from the mince pies on Jimmy’s shallow breaths in the small space between them, could see the colour darkening on Jimmy’s cheeks and the black of his pupils seeping out into the blue, swallowing it up as he stared back at Thomas. Gently, Jimmy took Thomas’ fingers again, guiding them slowly across his jaw and onto his lips.

 

As Thomas felt the hot, silken skin, he let out an involuntary groan, and let his eyes flicker shut. He traced his fingers tremblingly across Jimmy’s lips, feeling the impossibly soft, hot skin and the warmth of Jimmy’s uneven breaths brushing his fingertips. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and he was painfully aroused. The sound of their shallow breathing seemed to fill the whole room.

 

“Can… can you feel that?” Jimmy’s voice was lower than it had been a moment ago, and Thomas felt his lips move against his fingers as he uttered the words.

 

“Yes,” Thomas swallowed thickly, feeling almost dizzy. His heart was racing. He opened his eyes, and stifled another groan. Jimmy was staring at him, his mouth slack and lips red where Thomas’ fingers traced them, his cheeks flushed, his pupils wide and blown. The tension in the air between them was almost palpable. As Thomas looked at him, Jimmy reached up and took his hand gently away from his mouth. Then he was leaning in slowly, his hand cupping Thomas’ jaw, and they were kissing.

 

It was better than Thomas had ever imagined; it was soft and hot and tender, and he could taste Christmas spices and cigarettes and _Jimmy._ He felt as though his heart might explode with happiness. As Jimmy kissed him slightly harder with a hint of urgency, Thomas wound his arms round Jimmy’s waist, pulling him closer and kissing back, savouring every second of the feel of Jimmy’s lips against his, warm and needy. He fleetingly wished that time could be frozen before all coherent thought melted from his head at the sensation of Jimmy’s mouth against his.

 

After several moments, they broke apart and Jimmy rested his forehead against Thomas’, breathing heavily.

 

“Please never stop talking to me again, Mr. Barrow,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. The hand that wasn’t cupping Thomas’ jaw snaked out and captured Thomas’ injured one, squeezing it tight.

 

Thomas found he couldn’t say anything, but he squeezed back, hoping that somehow he could convey his overwhelming happiness with that single movement.

 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly, and Jimmy opened his eyes. The small sliver of blue still visible around the swollen, black pupils glittered in the dwindling firelight as he looked at Thomas. 

 

“It’s midnight,” he whispered. He traced his fingers over Thomas’ who felt the soft warmth and slight calluses with scintillating clarity. “Merry Christmas, Thomas.”


End file.
